


The Unempty House

by mresundance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, POV Second Person, The Empty House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:51:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is like coming home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unempty House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lexigent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexigent/gifts).



> Thanks to Flawedamythyst for the Britpick and beta! :D
> 
> Lexigent gave me the prompt: _Captain America, Steve/Bucky, (or other charactets from other fandoms/your own if you can't write these guys), the shape I found you in . Up to 1,000 words._

Not long now, you think.

It's autumn in England -- in _London_ \-- and beneath the smell of scalded pavement, the air tastes yellow with decay as you leave King's Cross St. Pancras, heading down the congestion of cars, people, and buildings that is Euston Road. 

Not long at all. Forty minutes at a leisurely pace. Taking the Underground will not do, not after nearly three years away. Neither will taking one of the many buses lumbering through traffic. No. As you unfurl long, mantis-thin legs, London rises up to meet you. You greet one another like lost lovers. Thus, at first, your way home is slow and sweet. You and your city become entangled again in each other's smell and taste and touch. You count all the ash trees down Euston. You feel all the cracks and bumps in the pavement. You see your cool, sharp reflection dart like a pale fish through the shop windows once more, and you pull your wool coat tighter around you as the London wind rises, bearing the smell of thousands upon thousands of people, of vehicles spewing exhaust, of trees exhaling and letting off their leaves, and flowers curling and rotting in their beds. The wind is not unlike a sloppy kiss: tongues raw and exposed, teeth snagging lips. You shiver, thinking again of John, of home, of seventeen steps and anemic light slanting through the sitting room. John, small and beautiful -- beautiful because you love him and always have, if you are honest -- sitting in his chair, grumbling from behind his paper, light glowing in his amber hair and eyelashes, illuminating the tired lines in his face. Gorgeous lines you've dreamt of, yearned for. Lines like the splits and cracks in the roads of London, which always lead you tirelessly home, to John. 

Untangling from London's smoggy, grimy, lovely limbs, you move quicker. Your real lover waits on Baker Street, which turns from Euston. The buildings, the roads, the people, all become vague. Thirty minutes later, your footsteps ring against pavement like bells chiming in greeting. 221b, and John, come into sight. You pause, keeping out of sight, because you want to savor this. 

John stands on the front step. He's not shriveled as he'd been when you last saw him, asking for a miracle at your grave. His head doesn't bob with grief, nor are there tears on his face. His shoulders and spine are not only straight, but supple, and he moves fluidly, without his limp. The faint light catches his golden hair and you want nothing more than to feel those fine strands between your fingers. But he's grown a mustache. Doubtless it obscures some of the beautiful lines around his mouth. And, if the smile is any indication, he has new lines upon that handsome face. But it's an _infuriating_ smile, the warmth radiating through his entire body. A smile he used to show only to you, in the shadows of your flat, the white flash of his teeth like a crescent moon. 

He says something you can't hear, but seems like "Are you coming?" from the shapes his mouth makes. For a moment you think he's seen you. He's smiling only for you. Not for the whole bloody street, the whole bloody city, whoring it out to anyone who can see. 

He speaks with his face tilted upwards, into the landing of 221b, the door ajar. Now the door opens completely and a woman comes out. Slender, keen eyed, with a smile that mirrors John's. There are nearly a hundred things you know about her just by looking. Even from this distance you can see she _loves_ him. Loathing roils through you, thick as the sludgy Thames. You decide you're going to march up there, wind your arm possessively around John, and _show_ her who he belongs to.

John laughs, an explosion of sunlight, and, leaning down just a little, kisses the woman. He cups her pale face in his hands. His finger tips speak of reverence, tenderness, wanting. She presses her whole body against his, wrapping him around her. As if he is a comforting blanket on a cold night. After a moment -- a sickening, too long moment -- she breaks the kiss, saying something which makes John huff. That soft, sweet sound he makes that is so very _John_. You ache just remembering. She rubs their noses together. The lines on John's face smooth away. He looks peaceful; content. 

He'd only ever looked like that when he slept well, which wasn't often when you were there. 

She takes his arm and they stroll down the street, leaning into each other. It's suddenly very dark, the clouds above thickening. A fog swirls down the street after them, and you find yourself turning your collar up. As if you can armor yourself against the tingling memory of John's kiss on your lips. The soft sound of his breathing as he lay sleeping next to you. His fingertips warm on your narrow hips, then tracing the bumps of your spine. The way he said _Sherlock_ full of rapture, adoration, love.  
He doesn't say her name -- whoever she is -- that way. No. You're sure John says her name with a fondness and warmth that is utterly certain. _Crushingly_ certain. Certain she will be there. Certain she loves him back. Certain she won't lead him to his death. 

She is certain: as the turning of the earth, as the sunrise and the seasons. And while John is fine with shocks and surprises, she will never leave him by jumping off buildings. Her love is a lighthouse beacon on dark seas. It is comfortable, comforting. 

It is like coming home. 

It hadn't occurred to you, for some ridiculous reason, John would recover. He would move on and find someone -- else. Perhaps someone -- better. You simply thought his life had stopped for you, just as a part of your life had stopped because he was not in it.

You don't cry, of course, and you don't even let out the long, harrowing sigh you've bottled in your chest. Instead you turn around, thinking you'll go to Pall Mall, to Mycroft. At least he might _welcome_ you.

And London is the perfect place to consummate your grief. You allow yourself to fold back into him and his congested, noisome embrace. You're but one thin, pale, sad man in a black coat, one of thousands, disappearing into vast crowds, the spider-web of streets.

**Author's Note:**

> In canon, _The Empty House_ is set in late March and early April. So you can think of this as an AU, if you like, where Sherlock stumbles into John about 6 months before that.


End file.
